• SPOILERS: A Matter of Time, anything before
• SUMMARY: : Jack must deal with the death of Frank Cromwell, and the memories that dredges up.
• PG [1st] [M] [A] [D]

Giving up your hatred is a hard thing to do.

Especially when it saved your life.

I hated Frank Cromwell. For seven years, I hated him more than any other being, human or otherwise. More than I hated the Goa'uld, Cousescou, Saddam Hussien, Moammar Qhadafy, Manuel Noriega, every bad guy and mortal enemy you could think of, because hating Frank Cromwell kept me from hating myself.

Sad, isn't it?

------------

I blamed Frank, because he left me behind for the Iraqis to find.

Not nice people, those Iraqis, at least the ones I met.

Even after all these years, I can close my eyes and see their faces, hear their voices, feel what they did to me...

Don't go there, Jack.

It's over.

It's really over, now.

Frank is dead.

Does that mean my hatred for him is dead, too?

To be honest with myself, that hatred died before he did, it died down there in the gateroom. It died that moment in the control room, actually, when I finally got it all off my chest. When I looked into his eyes and saw the regret there, and I realized that hating him hadn't helped me, or helped him, not any more.

It had only kept the horror alive.

Hard to believe that looking into the face of a man you'd once loved as a brother, and later hated as the one who'd abandoned you, could hurt you that much.

I'll never forget that look.

For a long time, that's what I'd thought I'd wanted, Frank dead, or at least the chance to see him suffer right before my eyes.

He'd suffered, all right, and far more than I'd ever imagined.

I'd seen it in his eyes, there in the control room, when he'd tried to talk to me and I'd shut him out, shouted at him, hurled my hatred and anger at him, all that blame that had festered inside me for so long. I dumped it all on him, and he stood there and took it.

My friend.

My enemy.

See, I'd made Frank Cromwell the enemy because he was human, because he was a man with a face and a name, an enemy I could comprehend.

Unlike the real enemies.

Took me a long time to realize that.

Seven years, actually, or thereabouts.

------------

God, it's all so mixed up in my head. My head hurts like hell, actually, all of me hurts like hell. I don't think there's an inch of my body that isn't bruised and sore. When the bomb went off and the wormhole disengaged, all that gravitational pull from PX-whatever cut off, and I smacked into the gateroom wall. Hard.

Doc said it was like falling off a three story building.

Don't know about that. I've never fallen off a three story building. But if this is what it feels like, I'm going to put 'falling off building, third story', on my list of things *never* to do.

The first few days in the infirmary, I drifted in and out. I wasn't even aware of Henry Boyd's funeral, or the funerals for the rest of his team. I didn't know about the memorial service they held for SG-10, and it wouldn't have mattered if I had because I couldn't have gotten out of that bed to prevent my *own** funeral.

Somewhere along about the sixth or seventh day I became aware that I was more than just a pain-infested bundle of battered flesh and damaged bone.

I went to Frank's funeral, you know, though I barely remember it. Doc didn't want me to, or the General either, but I'd kept insisting that I had to go. Okay, right, it wasn't really a funeral, since there was no body, just a memorial service with an empty casket. Ironic, just like the one they'd had for me, back then, thanks to Frank...

------------

I went to the service, left arm in a sling, bruises hidden beneath the uniform, shuffling like an old man with a sore back, bruised hip, and cracked ribs. Lied and said the headache was no big deal, though I doubt Doc actually believed me.

In the end, the only way I'd been able to convince Fraiser, or Hammond, that I could manage to go to the memorial without passing out along the way was to agree to let Doc go with me, well, err, take me, actually. She drove, and I dozed, and when we got to the cemetery, someone had arranged for our car to have a parking spot up close, so I only had to walk fifty feet or so. Barely made that, but I did.

I stood next to Doc during the service. It was a short one, like so many others I've been to, the words so familiar I could have recited them myself.

Somewhere toward the middle of it everything started to shimmy, and the sky went dark and the ground rolled, or so it seemed. I grabbed Doc's shoulder and then someone shoved a chair behind my wobbling knees and I sat down for a while. I'd wanted to do the flag ceremony for Frank, but common sense finally made me realize that keeling over at Judy's feet wasn't going to do a thing for a brand new widow with grief enough on her mind. So in the end I'd agreed to just watch.

Sit and watch, as it turned out.

When they started to fold the flag, I stood up. That was all I was able to manage, that, and saluting, standing stiffly at attention, swaying, remembering the man who'd saved my life by giving his own, a sacrifice I didn't deserve. Especially considering the things I'd thought about him all those years, the way I'd loathed, hated and despised him for something he had no choice about doing. Of course, I didn't know that then, didn't know he'd paid a price, too. Never let myself think there might have been consequences for him as well. All I'd been able to think about had been the broken promise. No one gets left behind. And he'd left me. He'd gone home to sleeping in his soft bed, eating his supper, sleeping with his wife, playing with his children; while I'd been *there*, in the dark without hope, with only hate to keep me alive.

So, see, he'd saved my life then, too, because hatred is a powerful motivational tool. Hate long enough and hard enough and deeply enough and it will keep you alive.

Consume you, too, in the end.

When the service ended, and they'd fired the salute, I got up and went over to Judy Cromwell and her boys, and muttered the usual platitudes. I don't think she heard a word, her face was blank, her eyes empty. I wasn't sure she would even recall that I'd been there.

But I'd remember. That was why I had to be there.

I only dimly remember walking back to the car, leaning on Doc, no longer caring if anyone saw what a mess I was. I'd been there, and done what I had to do, for Frank, for Judy and the kids, and for me.

Once back in the car, I'd sunk down into the seat, closed my eyes and rode back to Cheyenne Mountain without saying a word, ignoring Doc's worried glances.

She took me straight back to the infirmary, and I was flat on my back as fast as someone could strip my Class A uniform off me and switch me to a hospital gown. I never protested. I was too exhausted, not just by the physical exertion, but I was weary, too tired to care, too tired to deal with anything, much less the emotions that this disaster had stirred up.

I'd put Iraq behind me, as much as I'd ever been able to. I'd found a way to deal with what had happened over there, my own way, not the way the doctors really wanted me to deal with it, but it had worked, in the end. I'd returned to my life and my family and my career. The physical injuries healed, even the flashbacks ended, pretty much, eventually. Mostly, I just didn't let myself think about it anymore. I've always been pretty good at letting the past be the past. You have to, to do the kind of work I've done.

So, yeah, my subconscious wins once in a while, and I have a nightmare or two now and then, but I don't spend every day dwelling on what happened.

Seeing Frank had brought it all back, and let me know it still wasn't over.

Doc was worried about me, and once I felt physically stronger, I realized it wasn't just the damaged state of my body that concerned her. During the black hole crisis, she'd overheard some things in the hallway when I'd first come face to face with Frank. She's read my medical file, all of it, and being one smart lady, put two and two together and probably got it to equal exactly 4.0, as in four months I wished had never been a part of my life. She's not only smart, she's brave, because she actually had the guts to bring it up to me, and ask if I wanted to talk about it, it being Frank, we both knew.

"Nope," I'd answered what I hoped was glibly.

"Sure, Colonel?"

"Yes. Nothing to talk about."

She gave me one of those eyebrow raised, 'I don't believe you looks' that she could patent as her very own. "I wouldn't have guessed that from what you said in the hallway that day, Sir."

I glared. "*That* was personal."

She took a deep breath and went on. "Yes, I'm sure it was. In a way. Colonel, talking..."

I stopped her, right there. "Dr. Fraiser, talking about my past won't change my past. I talked all the talk I am ever going to talk, about that time, back then. It's done and over with, as dead as Frank Cromwell is." And I closed my eyes and ignored her.

-------

That was two weeks ago when I'd gone to Frank's memorial service. I've been home for 10 days now. The headaches are mostly gone, the bruises have faded, the stitches have been taken out; the cracked bones still ache and my back twinges on occasion, but I'm feeling better every day.

Physically at least.

I still hurt in other ways, ways I'll hurt for a long time, I'm afraid.

I stopped in at the base this morning, passed my checkup from Doc, and talked with the General. He passed on congratulations from the Pentagon big wigs, there's talk even of some commendation or other from the President. I told him not for me, honor Frank if he was going to honor anyone, but I wasn't interested in any medals or citations or backslapping ceremonies with the high muckety-mucks.

Hammond just nodded.

He understands what it's like to lose someone who's important to you.

If only I could figure out how Frank was important. As an object of my hatred, as the man who saved my life, and saved the planet? As the man who was once my best friend and mentor?

Way too much to think about, though I've had nothing to do but think, these past two weeks.

So far, I haven't managed to make sense of anything.

And Doc wondered why I'm still having headaches.

Today, she suggested I should go talk to the SG program's shrink, some Dr. McKenzie. Right. Like I'd do that. I had my fill of shrinks back then, seven years ago, when I came home and they made me repeat every painful moment, every humiliating detail, dragged it all out of me with threats that they'd discharge me on medical grounds otherwise...

I'm so *not* doing that again.

Just chalk it up as another bad memory for the collection, one more thing to be stuffed into that box of horrors I keep at the back of the shelf in the darkest recesses of my mind, along with a whole library no sane human being would ever want to open up again.

Despite the warm sun out there on the deck, I shivered, remembering...

--------------------

The ringing of the phone was a welcome diversion.

The voice on the other end was a surprise.

"Hello, Jack? This is Judy Cromwell."

"Yes." I answered warily.

She continued quickly, as if she needed to go on before she changed her mind. "Jack, I'd appreciate it if you could come over. I have something for you, from Frank."

Silence.

My mouth was dry. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't ready to face up to anything like this.

"Jack?"

"I, uh..."

"Jack, please, I know, things got ugly between you and, and Fr-frank, but I need to see you. Please."

Reluctantly, I agreed.

-----------

An hour later I found myself limping up the steps to the familiar front door. How many times had Sara and I been to this house? How many cookouts and card games and dinners had we shared here, our two families?

It was all a lifetime ago, and they were only memories now, times best forgotten, as far removed from my life today as that whole other part of my existence when I'd had a normal, everyday life with a wife and a kid.

I rang the doorbell.

Judy opened the door. I could see she'd been crying. Her face was pale, her eyes red, grief plain in every weary line of her face and the exhausted slump of her shoulders.

Not knowing what to say, I said nothing, just enveloped her in a hug.

She was stiff for a moment, then returned the embrace, finally pulling back and looking up at me with a tiny smile. "You always were the best hugger. I envied Sara for that."

For a long moment we just looked at each other, remembering times long past.

"Come in, Jack, please," she led the way into the familiar living room. It hadn't changed much. The walls had been painted, the sofa was new, and the pictures of their little boys I'd once known well replaced by photos of barely recognizable nearly grown young men.

I sat on the edge of an overstuffed chair and Judy sat on the sofa next to the coffee table strewn with letters and pictures.

"So, how are you?" she asked.

"Isn't that supposed to be my question?" I asked softly.

"I remember you being at the memorial service. You looked awful."

I thought she'd looked the same, but didn't say it. I shrugged carefully.

"Are you alright?" she asked again.

I nodded. "Nothing damaged that a bit of time won't fix. Thanks to Frank," I added.

She paled, and swallowed. "You were there, then, you were hurt when he....?" There was a question in her eyes, and I knew she needed to know.

There was so little I could tell her. I looked down at my hands, but of course there weren't any answers there, there never are, I ought to know that by now. "Frank died saving the lives of a lot of people, me included," I said simply.

She gasped.

"I'm sorry."

She reached across the table and touched my hands, and I looked up, into her face. "I'm glad," she said.

My expression must have shown my confusion.

"I needed to know how he died. The Air Force didn't tell me, said it was all top secret hush-hush. And then when I saw you at the funeral that day, I knew you could tell me what happened."

I shook my head. "I can't."

"You have."

I looked up at her, again, still confused.

Her fingers gripped my hand tightly. "If he died saving you, then he died," her voice caught, "then he died at peace."

I jumped to my feet, because I knew I didn't want to hear this.

"Jack, please," she pointed at the chair. Looking at her face, her face weighed down by grief and loss, I sat back down.

"Jack, Frank never forgave himself for what happened to you."

"I didn't forgive him either," I whispered under my breath, "until it was too late."

"He really wanted to talk to you, he tried..."

"I know. I wouldn't let him."

"He understood."

No, I thought, no one did, no one could. But I wasn't about to contradict the grieving widow. "We did talk a bit, before..."

"I'm glad. I know that would have meant a lot to him."

Would have meant more if I'd been able to say the words, been able to tell him I forgave him, been able to do more than yell at him, batter at him with my own anger and pain like they were weapons. But then, he knew me well enough to know I'd never been able to say those sorts of touchy-feely feel good things. He understood, because he was the same kind of person, a warrior, a good man, and a friend.

Judy rummaged around among the papers on the table. "It's here somewhere, I know," she said, distractedly. "There's just so much stuff to deal with.... The place is such a mess." She sounded overwhelmed.

I reached across the table to touch her hand. "Take your time. It's okay," I said, softly.

She looked up at me and smiled, despite the tears brimming in her eyes. "God, Jack, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, about what happened between you and Frank, the broken friendship; what happened to you; about Charlie, and about you and Sara." She wiped the tears that had suddenly spilled from the corners of her eyes. "So much happened, so much grief, so many losses. Oh God..." Tears were sliding down her cheeks.

Unsure what to say, I said nothing, just squeezed her hand.

After a silent moment, she took a deep breath, wiped her face, a wan smile crossing it, and she began searching again.

"Ah, here it is," she said at last, handing me an envelope.

I took it and turned it over. My name was scrawled in blue ink on the front, in Frank's familiar hand.

My hands shook. I raised my eyes to look over at Judy.

"He wrote that a long time ago. After, after you got back. He was seeing a psychiatrist..."

Frank? Seeing a shrink? I thought, shocked.

"He had a hard time sleeping, he kept having nightmares, about leaving you behind, about you calling out to him, blaming him, looking for him; he almost left the Air Force, back then..."

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to hear this. *I* was the wronged party. *I* was the one who'd suffered. *I* was the one who had the right to be hurt, and angry. He deserved...

"He wanted to lead a rescue mission, and they wouldn't let him. It made him crazy. Frank didn't eat and he didn't sleep and I think if he could have gone after you, even alone, he would have. And then you were released, and he wanted to make things right. And of course, there wasn't a way to do that. He knew that, but he tried."

I shook my head. Of course there was no way to make things right, no way to give me those months back; no way to take away the grief and the horror Sara had been forced to live through; no way to banish those memories from my head or remove the scars or heal the damage done to me, body and soul.

"He needed your forgiveness..."

"I had none to give," I admitted, softly.

"He understood that, but it didn't change how he felt. The doctor told him to write down his feelings, if he couldn't talk to you, he should write to you. I think he always figured some day he'd give that to you himself."

I stared down at the letter in my hand, then reached out, pushing it back toward her. "Here."

"No."

"I can't..."

"Yes, you can, Jack." Judy Cromwell stared across the room at me, across the chasm created by the broken friendship between Frank and me. "It's the one thing you can do for him. You said you talked, before he... before we lost him, then you know this would be important to him. Jack, if you were ever his friend, do this, for him and for me."

Okay, maybe I couldn't do this for Frank, but then I'd do it for her. After all, I'd eventually learned all that Judy had done for Sara during all that time I'd been gone. Judy had been there for Sara when she'd thought she'd been my widow, those horrible first days when the Air Force had listed me as KIA; and then Judy had been there for Sara and for Charlie during the long months when I was MIA and an unofficial POW. And she'd even been there after I'd gotten back, when I was hospitalized and then, just, well, just too much of a hopeless mess to be any help to myself, much less Sara or Charlie. Judy had been Sara's rock. This place had been Charlie's second home, a place to come and play with Frank and Judy's boys, a haven of normality in a life that had been turned upside down.

I took the envelope back, my heart thudding in my chest as I opened the seal.

It was dated 1992, a year after I'd returned, after I'd finally left the hospitals, been healed in body if not in spirit; after I'd ignored his phone calls and rebuffed every effort he'd made to see me or talk to me.

With shaking hands, I opened the envelope, unfolded the single sheet of paper, and forced myself to read:

Jack,

I couldn't breathe.

It was like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs, sucked out of the room, sucked out of the whole house. I bolted for the front door and stood on the porch, dragging in huge, deep ragged breaths, my ribs aching with every one, the pain something I deserved.

"Jack?" Judy's hand was on my arm, worry on her face. "Are you okay?"

I couldn't meet her eyes. I nodded, looked away, blinked, fought back the lump in my throat.

Yes, I am an unforgiving bastard.

I know that.

It's too late to forgive Frank, and I've never been able to forgive myself for anything, so...

So...

I go on.

I do what I do.

Do what I have to do.

And I'll never leave anyone behind.

No matter the cost.

Frank was a good man.

If only I'd told him so.

I think he knew, at the end, I hope he did.

I don't deserve his sacrifice, but I'll do everything I can to make it mean something.

There's a movie they made, I think the name was something like Pass It Forward, about taking someone's good deed and repaying it by passing it on. That's what I intend to do, with Frank's sacrifice. Give it meaning, by using the gift he gave me, the gift of my life, using it to save others, to make a difference, to teach my team and the rest of the SG teams that sometimes we have to make hard choices, impossible choices, but we make them, and we go on.

Frank Cromwell was my friend, and then he was my enemy, but in the end, he did more than save my life, he saved my unworthy soul.

In this life, I've learned, there are some things you can never forgive, but sometimes you can forget.

And then Frank taught me there are other things you can forgive, but you'll never forget.

Author's note: I can never thank my beta's enough. You know who you are, and you are the best, my friends.

© February, 2003 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.